Growing up, I loved to read and I also loved to write. I would read everything I could get my
hands on. Even things like the cereal box or the ketchup bottle label. I just couldn’t get enough to
read. I was like a drug addict, and the written word was my drug of choice.
As I grew older I discovered boys. Yes, I did. Needless to say, my love of reading and
writing stories slowly trickled away until I found myself grown and those things just became null
and void in my life for many years.
About twenty years ago my youngest started school and I suddenly found all this extra time
in my day and I picked up a book a friend had suggested I read. Actually, it was John Grisham’s
book, The Firm, but at that time he was basically unheard of. Needless to say, I immediately fell
in love and began buying any suspense and murder mystery books I could find.
The years went by, my children grew up and I had joined a small book club. I rushed to
pick up the monthly read and couldn’t wait to get home. A couple of friends had raved about the
book, promising a compelling action packed page turner.
I fixed my coffee, curled up in my chair, and began. I read two pages and my smile began to
fade. I thought, maybe it just starts off a little slow. I read two more pages and frowned. Okay, so
maybe it starts off really slow. I read a few more pages before finally hurling the book across the
room, knocking pictures off of my mantle. It was the worst book I had ever picked up. I figured
it had to be an unknown author…but it wasn’t. This author was a New York Times Bestseller.
My husband came in and asked what was wrong and I told him I could write better than that.
He said, “What are you waiting for?”
I thought about it for a month or so, then came home from church one Sunday, sat down in
front of my computer, and began writing. That was a year and a half, and two books ago.
I guess you could say my love for reading a good book was my inspiration for writing.